


I want to see

by wingsofaboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ai no Kusabi, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Master!Castiel, Masturbation, PWP, Pet!Dean, Punishment, Slave!Dean, Torture, Voyeurism, dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofaboy/pseuds/wingsofaboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ai no kusabi!AU in which Castiel of the Onyx Elite plays with his pet, Dean Winchester of the slums of Ceres, and maybe begins to see the appeal of physical intercourse.</p>
<p>Or the shameful PWP in which Castiel makes Dean jerk off in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want to see

**Author's Note:**

> Please, read the Summary and the tags carefully, and if something even remotely squicks you, stay away from this fic. :)  
> For those of you who'll keep reading, I hope you'll be able to enjoy it!

"Spread your legs wider. I want to see."

Dean bites his bottom lip and he turns his face to the side, trying to hide his shameful expression against the pillows and his shoulder as he obeys at the order and spreads his legs as he's told, canting his hips upwards so Castiel could see the way his fist travels up and down his shaft, how his pink, swollen, wet tip pops up between his fingers when he stops to play with it, when he rubs it teasingly as he plays with his balls at the same time.

The short chain connecting the cuffs at his wrists is cold against the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs, and it sends a jolt up his back which makes him arc more, push his hips up frantically against his fist. He's trying not to, but his voice keeps leaking from his mouth, and he's making all sort of wet, shameful sounds, moaning like a bitch, as if he's getting off from it, from being naked, chained and displayed on the bed, forced to touch himself in front of someone who looks at him like he's some sort of diversion, nothing more than a toy he can do with as he pleases.

It shouldn't make him quiver and moan and open himself up even more, but he does. He makes a show of caressing his slit, of weighting his balls on his palm, his knees spread painfully wide as much as the cuffs at his ankles allow him. He can feel the heat travelling up his body, his cheeks and shoulders flushing hot and for the first time he dares open his eyes and look back at Castiel.

The Onyx is still sitting on his chair, his head heavily cocked to the side, his blue, cold eyes fixed on him. He's looking at Dean intensely, his brows frowned as if he's trying to make sense of what Dean is doing, like he's studying some curious thing he can't quite figure out completely.

The lights are dim in the room, low enough to create a heavy, lustful atmosphere around them but Castiel can see perfectly in the dark, and when he notices Dean's looking at him he presses his lips together, but doesn't reprimand him. Instead, after a moment, he asks, "How does it feel?"

Dean isn't so stupid as to stop touching himself, but he slows the pace down a bit, eyelids heavy and all his body tense with his need to release. "What? I --"

"Tell me. How does it feel? Touching yourself, bringing yourself to the edge, giving yourself pleasure."

Dean licks his lips. Castiel's voice is rough and low, but even, inquisitive more than seductive. He seems just as curious as a child holding a magnifying glass over an anthill, and Dean shouldn't be surprised. It's true what they said in the slums, that the Elites weren't allowed to have sex – not among themselves and not even with the people they strapped of their humanity and used at their will, their _pets_ , and Dean remembers laughing with his friends about that, his mouth around the neck of a bottle. Better be a mongrel from the slums than some high class fucker who wasn't even allowed to do it, and everyone would drink to that, Benny and Bobby and Victor and Jo. Even Sammy would, sometimes--

"Come here and I show you," he says, voice as defiant as he can manage, because he can't allow himself to think about home, about his friends, about his little brother who was so smart and who deserved so much more than what life had put him through.

He's waiting for a reaction from Castiel, but all he knows is that the next second air is ripped out violently from his lungs and there's an unbearable pain at the base of his dick where the fucking ring is tightening mercilessly in his flesh. His whole body jerks upward, heels digging in the mattress and he covers his balls and cock with his hands as if it would somehow ease the pain, but it doesn't. Nothing does, nothing can beside a merciful gesture from his master.

Dean's eyes are wide open and he's crying, crying with all he's got because he can't bear it, because It hurts so much he's seconds from passing out, he knows it, knows that any more of this and he's gonna break, and with the little breath he still can manage he hears himself begging whilst his screams, begging him to make it stop, to let him go, to forgive him and a litany of please, please, _please_ –

"Tell me."

Dean grits his teeth when Castiel's words reach him and somehow he manages to nod frantically, trying to convey the message he will do what he's told, that he will be good, won't disobey anymore, just, _please, make it stop, please, please, please_.

Dean doesn't see Castiel reach for the controller in his own ring, but a second later the grip of the jewel has loosened around him and, if possible, it feels even worse, like the claws of a ferocious beast letting go of his flash slowly, painfully, leaving him bare and hurt and sensitive.

He's breathing hard in the pillows, his hands still tight over his groin and he raises his gaze over Castiel who's still looking at him, still in his armchair, completely dressed, with that furrowed expression that's a strange mixture of annoyance, curiosity and the confidence he's the one who's always calling the shots.

"Go on, now, show me. Tell me how it feels."

Dean licks his swollen bottom lip and wraps his hands around himself once again, finding his dick is still hard, and it reacts immediately when Dean closes his fist around the base and slowly, tentatively strokes up to the tip and then back down again. It's because of the drugs they've given him, he thinks, or maybe it's all him, dirty, needy whore that he is, getting off from being used and hurt and would gladly get it up for some psycho's entertainment.

"It feels good," he says in a broken voice, tears streaming down his face. He's touching himself earnest again, knees spread and hips raised to grant Castiel a better view. He lifts his balls, massages the sensitive skin under them while he spears drops of pre-cum all over the tip and the shaft, moaning loudly in doing it.

"It's good," he founds his voice again, but then, he doesn't know what else to say. Should he describe the way his chest clenches, or the way his eyes lose focus? That he feels his thighs tremble and his back tense and that all his body is just a long string about to snap while pleasure builds and builds and builds and he's breathless and his mind his blank and he just needs to come because that's what fucking normal people do?

"You keep moving your hand," Castiel says, and Dean snaps his eyes open, abruptly brought back to reality. "You turn your wrist, and constantly change the pace. Why?"

Dean breathes in. "It feels better. It just – it feels better. Touch more places. Feel more."

He isn't articulate, but apparently Castiel doesn't mind, because he nods and keeps looking at the way Dean caresses himself, slow strokes first and then fast, fingers trailing imaginary patterns along the shaft, short nails gently rubbing the slit, digits pressed under the tip that make Dean intake breath and moan loud.

"You like that."

It's not a question, and Dean looks up at the ceiling because it's true. He _likes_ it, and not just having his hands on himself. He likes _this_ and he hates himself, even more when he keeps touching that spot that makes him jerk his hips even higher just so Castiel can see exactly what makes him writhing and panting. But he can't stop, not now, not when pleasure is boiling under his skin, and soon he just can't take it anymore.

"Please, gotta – I need to come. I really, really, really need it, please, please!"

Castiel's head is crocked to the side, eyes intent, but he says nothing and Dean keeps touching himself and moaning and begging because he knows he doesn't have much choice now and everything is so intense that when finally Castiel gives his permission his whole frame trembles in pleasure and pain and he comes hard all over his stomach and his chest, his mouth wide open.

Dean falls back on the cushions, his breath raggedy and shallow, all his limbs aching. He doesn't barely notice it when Castiel approaches the bed. He snaps his eyes open when he feels his hand, still gloved, travel up his chest to gather some on his semen on the tip of his fingers. Castiel studies it attentively, smearing the white, sticky liquid with his thumb before he brings it to his face and licks it.

Dean gulps at that, but Castiel ignores him. Instead grabs Dean's hair at the base of his scalp and yanks his head up, forcing him into a semi-sitting position, and without saying anything he presses his fingers to Dean's mouth.

"Lick it."

And Dean does. He licks the tip of Castiel's fingers, his own come mixed with the rich leather of his gloves, he licks them all, one after the other, and then his palm, even if there's nothing there, but Castiel lets him and holds his head in a painful grip, and when Dean's done he lowers him again on the bed gently, his big blue eyes fixed on his face.

"You did good," he says and Dean just nods when Castiel lowers and places a kiss on his forehead.

This is the rest of his life, after all.


End file.
